


The Musketeers prompt fills

by stepantrofimovic



Series: Crumbs [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 20:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11517312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: What it says on the tin: a home for my Musketeers-related prompt fills, written for people on Tumblr. (Although, to be honest, this is mostly Trevilieu.)





	1. Trevilieu, cats and fluff

**Author's Note:**

> It has been brought to my attention that, while a mixed prompt collection such as [Crumbs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7485759/chapters/17013255) is very handy for me as a creator, the format is annoying to readers who are only interested in one ship or fandom -- plus it clutters the tags, especially for less-popular ships. For this reason, I'm starting a prompt series with one fic for each fandom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **tatzelwyrm** / **grabmotte** on Ao3: "Hi! If you're still taking prompts for Treville/Richelieu, could you write something fluffy including Richelieu's cats? (The historical Richelieu had at least 14 cats at the end of his life and I read somewhere that Capaldi would have liked if they had given him a cat on the show, so that's definitely something that deserves a fic)."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Here I am, publishing months-old fills. Also, I'm taking prompts again.)

“What – what does it want?” Treville asks, his tone just this side of horrified. He is sitting on one side of Richelieu’s bed, getting dressed. The Cardinal himself has just opened the door to the adjoining room in order to retrieve some fresh clothes, which in turn provided the perfect opportunity for Thisbe to slip inside. She didn’t waste any time in jumping on the bed, where she is now enthusiastically butting her head against Treville’s elbow. She gives a warbling meow, as if providing an answer to his question.

“I’d say that she wants you to pet her,” Richelieu translates, a touch of amusement in his voice.

“Pet… her. Right.” Treville’s gruff tone almost has the Cardinal smiling outright. He knows that his lover would not appreciate that, however, so he pretends to be busy picking up a clean undershirt.

When he turns around, Treville is clumsily patting behind the tabby’s ears. It’s the sort of gesture that might please a hound, but definitely not a cat, and Thisbe wastes no time in correcting him by repositioning herself and pushing her tiny body under his large hand. As Treville’s scratches grow more comfortable, she starts purring loudly in encouragement.

This time, the Cardinal does smile. Treville scowls back at him, but doesn’t stop his ministrations.

***

“… did your cat just drop a dead bird in front of me?”

A glance at the poor ex-sparrow on the floor confirms that yes, that’s exactly what happened. “Looks like it, yes.”

Treville heaves a long-suffering sigh. “And why on Earth would she do that?”

“I believe that she considers it a gift.”

“You know what,” Jean says gravely after a moment’s consideration, “sometimes you two are distressingly similar.”

Armand chooses not to dignify that with an answer.

***

The problem, Richelieu thinks, is that his cats seem to feel entitled to the attention of any human who’s in the same room as them. That’s probably a sign that he’s spoiled them rotten. Most of the time, he can’t be brought to care.

Except when Thisbe starts following Jean around every time she sees him, making it a game to try and trip him up when he’s not paying attention to her. Every time he sits down, the damn ball of fur is always ready to jump on his knees and curl up with the most proprietary expression on her tiny face. And, of course, Jean is unable to resist her charms, or the way she starts purring as soon as his hand lands on her.

Again, Richelieu wouldn’t mind, if it wasn’t that most of the time he’s in his room, Jean is supposed to be taking care of other things. Things that involve getting naked and a lot of creative uses of the Cardinal’s furniture. Not wasting time by paying attention to a stupid, needy cat.

In short, Richelieu is jealous. Of a cat. Not only is it undignified, it also leads to Thisbe being shut outside the bedroom, which in turn leads to loud meowing at any time of day (or night), which again makes the servants suspicious. He’s just had to send one of the maids away – she was asking too many questions.

He sighs, staring at Perruque, who is currently sitting on a bunch of papers on his desk. Papers he needs for this morning’s work, thank you very much. “I did this to myself, didn’t I?”

Perruque stares back at him, then closes her eyes in utter disdain.

_Typical._

***

“Armand. I think your cat is pregnant.”

“ _Again?_ ” He didn’t mean to sound so annoyed, but Mimi had kittens just three weeks ago and he’s still trying to figure out what to do with half the litter. (They have currently taken up residence in the kitchen. The cooks love them, which probably means they’ll be staying there in the long term. He just hopes they grow up feral enough to help catch some mice – half of his cats are utterly useless at that.)

“Well, it’s a good thing, if you ask me,” Jean gruffs. It brings a smile to Richelieu’s face.

“You can keep a couple of them when they’re born,” he says. Even with all the attention he’s been giving Thisbe in the past few months, the lack of protest on his lover’s side still comes as a surprise.

***

“Armand?” comes a slightly alarmed voice from the bedroom. “Come here?”

The sight that awaits Richelieu as he enters the room is worth a whole painting. Scratch that, a whole series of frescoes. By the best painter in Court. Treville is struggling to sit up in bed, doing his best not to jostle the litter of six tiny, utterly vulnerable kittens that are, by the looks of it, blindly trying to burrow into one of his armpits. Near the foot of the bed, Thisbe is keeping an eye on them, all the while licking her paw in feigned indifference.

This time, the betrayed look on his lover’s face is not enough to stop the Cardinal from laughing.

When Treville finally manages to reposition himself against the cushions, after relocating the kittens to a comfortable dip in the covers next to his legs, he bends forward to pick Thisbe up by the scruff of her neck. (The only time Richelieu tried that move, he ended up with bleeding scratches all the way up his elbow. That had been terribly unfair, and fun to explain to the King.)

“You dumb furball,” he hisses at the cat. “What if I had rolled over and crushed them in my sleep? Eh? What then? You degenerate mother!”

Thisbe chirrups, supremely unaffected by Treville’s accusations. The Cardinal, for his part, is seized by a sudden need to commit this moment to memory. He is no gifted painter, he knows, but he goes to grab his sketchbook all the same.

***

The next day sees a basket filled with warm towels appear in the office of the Captain of the Musketeers. It soon becomes the residence of a proud-looking tabby and her six kittens.

“Isn’t that one of the Card–” d’Artagnan asks, his tone faintly horrified.

“Ssst!” Porthos hisses, in what passes as _sotto voce_ for Porthos. Treville is sure that they must have heard him all the way to the barracks. Athos, who is standing in the corner furthest away from the basket, stares at the cats mournfully before letting out a string of sneezes.

The Captain sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It’s going to be a long day.


	2. Trevilieu, modern AU, hurt/comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "I need Treville/Richelieu hurt/comfort fics!! Like one hurt/hurting and the other worried. Please!!!!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setting for this is a prequel of the [Prime Minister AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9249863), with Jean and Armand studying in Oxford together with Louis, pre-falling out and pre-angst. Just imagine Treville in a leather jacket and a lanky young Richelieu with a ridiculous head of curls, and you’re set.

‘… and I need to get this essay outlined by the end of the day so that I can start thinking about bibliography, but I also think Louis may be falling behind on his coursework again, and we should definitely talk to him, so.’

Jean barely turns towards Armand, pausing midway into shrugging on his jacket. ‘I know,’ he bites out in reply. ‘I’ve noticed as well. I’ll deal with it as soon as I have some time.’

He doesn’t realize how sharply that has come out until he starts walking towards the door and Armand does not follow suit.

‘Jean?’ he asks, softly, a tiny, puzzled frown appearing on his forehead, almost hidden by his riot of curls.

Jean stops as well, mentally kicking himself for snapping so easily. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m – not having the best day.’ Which is a bit of an understatement, considering that he hasn’t slept well in about a week, he has end-of-term work to deal with, and his talk with his college tutor this morning has been – well. He knows he can get through everything and meet his deadlines, he does. It’s just, sometimes it’s hard to keep juggling everything, especially when other people don’t seem to trust him to make it.

Still, Armand doesn’t like it when people snap at him. Neither does Louis. Especially when said people are Jean Treville, best friend and/or father figure and/or solid rock in the relationship. Not to mention how much Jean hates seeing that unsteady expression on Armand’s face, like he isn’t sure of his welcome.

(He can’t mess this up as well, not today. He needs to do right by _someone_.)

‘Tell me about Louis again,’ he tries. Despite his efforts, he can’t quite control the way his voice catches a little. He’s just tired, and he feels raw, and this is one more thing that – _goddammit, Jean, you know you can do this_.

When Armand raises his eyes, his expression has morphed from insecure to a mix of concerned and determined. His hand shoots out to catch Jean’s sleeve. ‘Come on,’ he says, tugging. ‘We’re getting coffee.’

‘Of course,’ Jean says, following his lead as they walk outside. ‘I’m finished with class for today, we can go to the Scholar and you can tell me everything about our newest Bourbon situation before we go back and do some work.’ See? He’s managed to sort himself out already. The Scholar is one of Armand’s favourite outlets at busy times – close enough to the library, as the name will tell you, that they can get coffee there without Armand feeling like he’s wasting too much of his day. It’s a cross between a coffee-shop and a pub, so the coffee is pretty terrible, and there’s too many chatty first-years around for Jean to really enjoy the atmosphere, but at least it’s a place where they can talk.

Armand, however, is shaking his head, a dogged expression on his face. ‘We’re going to the Fleur-de-Lys,’ he says.

The Fleur-de-Lys is Jean’s favourite place – out of the way, an Australian barista that makes lattes as if it were a religious ritual, and teacakes to die for. Going there means a proper break, getting away from the library and academic commitments and just feeling at home for a while.

It also means that Armand will not get to outline his essay by the end of the day. Jean tells him as much.

‘It’s fine,’ Armand smiles, a rueful quirk of his lips. ‘It can wait until tomorrow.’

He still hasn’t let go of Jean’s sleeve. As they walk out of the building, he resumes speaking without looking at Jean.

‘We’re not talking about Louis, by the way. We’re talking about your meeting with Rohan this morning, because you haven’t told me anything about it and apparently I’ve been too wrapped up in my own head to notice.’ He shakes his head at Jean’s attempt to interject. ‘My apologies for that.’

‘It’s not – it’s really not important.’

Armand stops walking at that, leading to Jean almost bumping into him. He glares at him from underneath his unruly mess of hair. ‘It is. We’re talking about it. And I’m paying for coffee, since I still owe you from last time.’

He’s still scowling, determined, but Jean can read the hidden vulnerability in his efforts. He wants to help, and he’s afraid that Jean will push him away.

Jean smiles. _As if._

‘Okay,’ he gives in, sighing theatrically. He can already feel himself settle, his mind calming down at the mere thought of some time with Armand. ‘Lead the way.’

They walk across the lawn side by side, Armand’s hand still resting casually on Jean’s forearm.


	3. Trevilieu, more cats and fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **helveticaes** : "118: “Are you mad at me?” – Trevilieu"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next six chapters come from two short prompt nights I did based on [this Tumblr prompt list](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/post/161208519113/nearly-200-writing-prompts-feel-free-to-reblog).

A morning with Treville, Armand muses, is a rare and fleeting gift. Of course, having a secret passage that can lead his lover in and out of the Palais Cardinal with minimal risk to be discovered makes things easier, but even with that, it’s not often that Jean manages to stay the night. When dawn had woken them up that morning, both of them too used to the different battlefields of war and politics to linger in bed for too long, Richelieu had still regretted the duty that forced him to get up and leave the room to get dressed for the day.

Now, as he’s walking back to the bedroom, the soft rustle of movement and the sound of Treville’s voice bring him to a stop.

“Come on,” he can hear Treville’s coaxing tone, “What’s up with you?”

It takes a moment for Armand to realise who Treville is talking to. When he does, nothing can stop him from chuckling.

“Are you mad at me?” Treville asks, a hint of petulance seeping into his voice, just as Armand enters the bedroom. The sight that greets him turns his chuckle into a soft smile.

Treville is sitting up in bed, white sheets pooling around his waist, making for a striking contrast with his tanned skin. He’s stretching his hand for a small, tabby cat to sniff. As he moves, the cat turns her head away from him, a look of supreme contempt on her face.

“Armand,” Jean whines – there is no other word for it, and it might just be the end of Richelieu, hearing that tone from his usually so collected lover. “I think Thisbe hates me.”

“ _I_ think Thisbe –” Armand counters, walking up to the bed – “knows that she should not be in our bedroom at all.” He almost doesn’t notice he’s slipped, but Treville’s smirk alerts him to his mistake. In order to distract him, Richelieu bends down to scoop the cat up in his arms.

In the following thirty seconds, Thisbe manages to remind him of how little she likes being picked up, how loudly she can meow when she’s displeased, and how easy it is for her paws to get tangled in Richelieu’s robes to the point that he can distinctly hear the fabric tearing. Treville’s laughter – clear and carefree and crisp like the morning light – is more than worth the indignity, though.


	4. Trevilieu, Armand-centric angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **freyalor** : 34: “I don’t deserve to be loved.” – Trevilieu

He has never spoken the words out loud.

He thinks about it, sometimes. As he stares at his reflection in the mirror, he thinks about saying what goes through his mind every time he sees his own face. Every morning and every night, after his prayers. The words feel as familiar to him as those, by now. Only the language is different.

 _I do not deserve to be loved_ , he looks at himself and thinks.

Those words are not for God. He cannot claim to know enough about God’s grace that he’ll ever understand whether he’s worthy of love in the eyes of the Lord. It wouldn’t be a bad topic for a discussion with his brother, he thinks. Whether there are sinners who are damned already in life, for whom God’s love is not a possibility any more. There was something along these lines in that Italian, Alighieri, he thinks.

But no, the reminder has nothing to do with God, and everything to do with one of the many reasons for his soul’s eternal damnation.

There may be redemption in love, he thinks. Another good topic for a conversation with Alphonse. That is precisely why he does not love Jean.

Because if he thinks, for one moment, that he could love Jean – loyal, brave, bright Jean – without Jean loving him back, then he’s a fool.

So he doesn’t love Jean, and Jean doesn’t love him back. He sends Jean’s Musketeers to be killed in Savoy, and waits for Jean to shout at him, and then come back to him, out of lust and anger and a general desire to overpower him, to force him to submit. He lets him do that. It’s easier than the alternative.

He will never deserve the alternative. He knew that when he chose France over his own soul. Every day, he chooses France over Jean as well.

Every day, he repeats the words to himself.


	5. Trevilieu, modern AU, misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **slowlymychaos** : 137: “You’re an asshole.” – Trevilieu

“The problem here, clearly,” Jean says, “is that sometimes I forget the obvious.” He’s standing next to the kitchen island, his fingers clutching at the granite countertop the only outward sign of his nervousness. It’s a weird place to be having an argument in, Armand’s kitchen at half eleven at night. It brings with it a sense of domesticity that feels especially out of place right now.

“The obvious being?” If Armand is something, it’s good at not letting his emotions show. Including the fear that washes over him at the thought that Jean, for once, might actually be angry at him.

“That you’re an asshole.”

Normally, Armand would laugh it off. It’s not the worst thing that Jean has said to him, not even close. Tonight, though, when there’s the possibility that Jean might mean it – that’s a different thing.

“Look, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You introduced me as your friend. You took me to your bloody office party and you introduced me as your friend throughout the night.”

“You are my friend. That was not inaccurate. And I didn’t hear you try to correct me, asshole or not.”

Jean’s gaze hardens for a moment, then it clears, all of a sudden. He moves his hands away from the countertop, spreading them in front of his chest in what passes, Armand guesses, as a thinking gesture.

“Okay. You’re an asshole. But you’ve never been a stupid one, so I am going to assume you did that for a reason and you didn’t just decide to stick the two of us as far into the closet as you could reach because it was fun. So. What was your reason?”

When Armand hesitates, he adds, “I’ll give you thirty seconds.”

“It will be less embarrassing,” Armand mumbles. “When you break up with me,” he adds hastily, as Jean’s expression starts to shut off. “There will be less explaining to do. I don’t want them to gossip about asshole Richelieu being dumped, okay? A friend who doesn’t come to the next office party will be easier to explain.” It hurts to say that out loud, he finds out. Weird, considering how often he considers the possibility of Jean leaving him. Better to be prepared, after all. On the other hand, isn’t Armand’s attempt at being prepared what started this whole mess?

There’s a frown on Jean’s face. That, at least, is an expression Armand knows well.

“What I don’t understand here,” he starts, very slowly, “is the assumption that we are going to break up. Sorry, that I am going to –” he makes actual air quotes at this point – “‘dump you’.”

Armand just gives him a half shrug in response to that. The reasons are obvious. It’s just taking a while for Jean to see them.

Jean shakes his head. “Apparently, the obvious is not that you’re an asshole, it’s that you’re an idiot.” He moves closer to Armand, cupping his face into his hands. “I guess I’m just going to have to prove you wrong.”


	6. Trevilieu, (very light) hurt/comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **tatzelwyrm** / **grabmotte** on Ao3: 160: “Do you think you can teach me that?” – Trevilieu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also inspired by [this post](https://naggie-w.tumblr.com/post/161057805104/freyalor-tatzelwyrm-freyalor-naggie-w).

“So –” Richelieu says, still slightly out of breath and clutching a heavy book in his hands – “this was… entertaining?”

Treville is not entirely sure whether he wants to laugh or tear his hair out in frustration. Instead, he opts for bending down and starting to tie up one of the two men who are currently lying unconscious on the floor of Richelieu’s study.

“Don’t you think so, Captain? I certainly –”

“Do _not_ ,” Treville hisses, “tell me that you enjoyed it.”

“I shall not, since you’re asking so nicely.”

Treville debates standing up again just to glare at Richelieu. Doing so from the floor seems slightly undignified. “Two men managed to get into your office, after dark, without anyone stopping them. Can you tell me what is _entertaining_ about this scenario?”

Richelieu offers him an easy smile. “The fact that they found you here, among other things? You should have seen their faces.”

“I have,” Treville spits out, “seen their faces. And,” he continues, straightening up and stretching his back (yup, still not as young as he used to be), “it’s a good thing I _was_ here, since you seem to regard that –” he points at the book that is now resting on Richelieu’s desk with a look of utter contempt – “as a reasonable means of defence.”

Richelieu looks supremely offended on behalf of his – is it a Bible? Treville assumes it’s a Bible. “What’s wrong with that? It’s heavy.” Treville’s glare doesn’t falter. “It seemed like a good idea.”

“We’ve seen how well that worked.”

“I must admit, your punches were certainly more… effective.” There’s a light in Richelieu’s eyes that tells Treville exactly what he thought about his punches. He’s always suspected that seeing him fight has an effect on the Cardinal. And, well. The adrenaline from the short brawl still hasn’t dissipated, and he wouldn’t mind channelling that into, well, a different kind of strenuous activity.

Richelieu has stepped closer to him by now, cupping Treville’s right hand in his and examining his bruised knuckles. “I expected knocking two people out would leave your hands in a worse state, to be honest.”

That’s Treville’s daily reminder that Richelieu did not start his life as a clergyman. He knows a thing or two about fighting, even if it’s been a long time since he had to put that in practice. “It’s easier if you know how to punch,” Treville smiles. That’s mostly due to the way Richelieu’s thumbs are rubbing all over his fingers, but there’s a bit of Gascon pride in there as well.

“I’m not sure I remember how to do that,” Richelieu murmurs, sounding distracted. His voice has dipped lower, his mouth curling ever-so-slightly upwards. “Do you think you can teach me, some time?”

“I’m sure I can,” Treville answers, sliding his free hand to cup the back of Richelieu’s neck. “We just need a few hours. For practice.”

“I’m sure I can find room for that.”


	7. Trevilieu, angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **naggie-w** : 112: “Why are you bleeding?” – Trevilieu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery warnings in the endnotes.

“Captain,” Richelieu says. “It’s been a while.”

It _has_ been a while, Treville thinks. He isn’t sure he can remember why. Nor is he sure why seeing Armand again brings with it such an overwhelming feeling of joy, a desire to reach out for him, touch him, hold him close.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Richelieu says with a wry smile, moving his hand out of Treville’s reach.

His hurt must show on his face, because Armand smiles at him. If it was supposed to be a reassuring smile, the slight trembling at the corner of his mouth belies that.

Armand looks pale. Thin. Why is Armand so pale?

“You don’t know why you’re here, do you?”

“Why I am – where?” Where _is_ he? He tries to look around, but for some reason, he can’t.

It’s almost like there is no _around_ to look.

“You don’t know.” Armand’s smile is mocking and sad at the same time. Treville wasn’t sure that was possible, but then again, Armand’s facial expressions have always had a tendency to surprise him. He could have stared at his mouth forever, when –

_When?_

“What’s happening? Where am I?” He doesn’t bother hiding the note of panic that creeps into his voice.

“There you go.” Richelieu nods once, the sadness not leaving his eyes. “I’m only going to ask you one question, Jean. Why are you bleeding?”

He looks down at his chest. Half of his shirt is soaked with blood. It seems to come from somewhere on his upper back, or shoulder, or –.

That’s when he remembers. The street in Paris. The bullet tearing into his shoulder. Porthos, Lemay, Constance. Pain, so much pain. He must have passed out from it.

“Am I dead?” he asks.

He knows the answer from the curve of Armand’s smile. Teasing him, as he always did when he was alive.

For a moment, the thought of going back to a world without Armand cuts his breath short. _Can I stay here_ , he wants to ask. _With you._

He has a duty to fulfil, he knows. He will not ask.

Armand is still smiling as he retreats from Treville’s sight, disappearing into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canonical character death (Richelieu, not Treville).


	8. Trevilieu, angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **freyalor** : “Your heart is weak” – Trevilieu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, spoilery warnings in the endnotes.

Treville doesn’t know why Rochefort still thinks challenging him in front of the King will bring something to his cause. Who has the upper hand should be clear by now, and after the last few failed missions on the Musketeers’ side, it’s definitely not Treville.

Still, Rochefort keeps doing his posturing thing, keeps thinking he can insult Treville, and Louis does not say anything. Really, Treville should be used to it by now. He doesn’t know why he still lets it get under his skin.

Except he does. He knows exactly why Rochefort managed to get under his skin today, at least.

“Your heart is weak, Captain,” Rochefort had spit out in the middle of their confrontation, and Treville had been left with two choices – doing something he would regret, or running away.

Well. He isn’t sure he doesn’t regret storming out of the room, now that he has time to think.

Think. Not that he isn’t doing his best not to.

He swirls the contents of his glass around one more time. How many has he had?

It doesn’t matter. The answer is, not enough. Not enough to drown out Armand’s voice.

Treville refuses to believe Rochefort could have known about this. Armand would never have told him. No, it’s just his luck that Rochefort managed to find one of Armand’s favourite phrases to throw back at him.

“Your heart is weak, Captain.” Idly tracing patterns on Treville’s chest as they were lying in bed. “How does Treville the loyal live knowing this?” Armand’s fingers brushing lightly on his skin. “That I am his weakness?” His mouth following his fingers, sometimes. Just as light, just as burning.

Jean had never answered the question. That would have meant acknowledging the assumption behind it was true.

Now, he wishes he had.

He swallows another gulp of wine. No, he doesn’t. He wishes he could stop thinking about Armand’s hands. He wishes the memory of those fingers on his skin didn’t bring tears pressing against the back of his throat, tears the drink can’t drown.

He wishes. He regrets. He pours himself another glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canonical character death (Richelieu, not Treville).


	9. Trevilieu, modern AU, jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **slowlymychaos** : 77: “Are you jealous?” – Trevilieu

They were doing so well. They were bantering, teasing each other, as usual, and Jean swears, it was just meant to be a throwaway remark, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth he wishes he had just bitten his tongue off and swallowed it rather than speak.

Also, the way Armand sort of freezes in place as soon as he hears what Jean’s said is really not helping.

They were doing well, up to now. The casual thing was a good thing for them, clearly. No strings attached, as befits two men their age who were definitely not looking for a relationship. (Definitely not. Shut up, Treville.) The sex was – well. No complaints there. Even the quality of the workplace banter had improved since they’d started sleeping together – although that might just have been thanks to all the out-of-office practice.

And then Jean had to go and screw it all up by asking if Armand was _jealous_ , of course. Of him. Such a ridiculous thought.

Now, Armand is still stuck, staring at him, and Jean can almost see the gears turning in his head. No way that is going to end well.

He could apologise, of course. He could try to take it back. But then, again, that would imply that there _is_ something to take back, and that will just lead Jean deeper into a hole he doesn’t think he can climb out of.

Maybe he could just jump behind the couch and hide until Armand has left. That’s actually starting to sound like a reasonable option. He could –

“Yes.”

Apparently, Jean can do a pretty amazing impression of a gaping fish, because that’s what his face is doing now. _Oh god._

Armand still looks quite stunned, though, as if what he just said had taken him aback as well. “Yes,” he continues. “I believe I am. Jealous, I mean.”

There’s just a heartbeat of shared astonishment before Armand recovers enough to throw a shark-like grin at Jean. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Jean answers, licking his lips. “I don’t think it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last ficlet for the [short prompt night](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/post/161208519113/nearly-200-writing-prompts-feel-free-to-reblog).


	10. Trevilieu, domestic fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **freyalor** : "Quatre-quarts cake and herbal tea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Freya’s never-ending trove of historical knowledge, “[Quatre-quarts cake](http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/28116/quatre-quarts-cake.aspx) was Richelieu’s favourite. Sugar was a relatively new thing, coming from the Antilles. It’s the plainest cake in France. But you can add pretty much everything to the recipe. He is said to have allowed himself a piece every Sunday.”

“You do know” he says, eyeing the paper-wrapped package in my hands with some wariness, “that I have a cook.”

I do, of course. I also happen to know that his cook has been called away to attend to urgent matters at his family home in the Dauphiné. I do not insult his intelligence by pointing that out.

He inclines his head, eyes gleaming in understanding as if I had spoken. He unwraps the cake, his fair, nimble fingers making for a stark contrast with the brown paper. The sound is sharper than the rustle of clothes against skin, but it makes my mouth go dry nonetheless.

His lips stretch in a thin smile as he moves to fetch a plate. The contrast between the fine china and the rough, imperfect shape of the cake mirrors that between his hands and the paper a moment ago. And other things as well, but I try not to dwell on that.

He better not find out how much of my monthly pay went into the sugar for that wretched sweet treat.

His silver knife cuts easily through the thin crust. Pierre, the garrison’s cook, assures me this is a good sign.

It’s a ritual I’ve witnessed a hundred times by now. Cup of herbal tea by his right hand. Thin slice of cake in his left. I’ve asked him once why he never dunks the cake in the tea. He looked at me as if I had blasphemed.

I ignore the pit of nervousness in my stomach as he takes the first bite and chews.

And chews. And chews. Then he lifts the cup, pinkie finger outstretched ( _like an old maid, I often tell him_ ), and takes a long gulp of tea.

I must have been silent for too long, because he smiles.

He’s amused, I realise, my cheeks burning with shame. Too late to affect nonchalance, I assume, if I ever had a chance.

He extends his hand out across the table. It takes me a moment to understand what he’s doing, but when I do, the flush in my cheeks deepens. The tension in my gut has turned to anticipation.

I stretch my own arm to pluck the cake from his fingers, but he resists, the madman. He shakes his head until I bend forward and take a bite from his own hand.

For the first couple of seconds, I’m not exactly focusing on the taste.

The cake is plain, just as I expected. It’s also dry. Very dry. I grimace as I try to swallow, swirling my tongue around in an attempt to chase the sticky feeling from my palate.

From across the table, he chuckles, and I feel my face heat up again. He hasn’t moved his hand back, I notice. I snatch his wrist before he can, digging my fingers in until I’m sure they’ll leave a mark.

After I’ve taken the remaining bite, I make sure to lick his fingers clean.

I’m not the one who’s blushing now.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to send me a prompt, check out the [Prompts info](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/prompts) page on my Tumblr.


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